Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.
By Oh, Germany!Prince Emil von Schönaich-Carolath (18521908)
A G
Upon a moonlight night—
I know not why I always
Am touched so by the sight.
A youth is staring long;
He’s sighing, sobbing, feeling
His first and dearest song.
And rocks to rest her child;
She’s praying while she rocks him
To sleep with singing mild.
An old man’s pensive eyes:
He holds in his hands a Bible
Where a faded nosegay lies.
There’s rustling in the trees;
The houses all seem dreaming
In deep and drowsy ease.
As always on Simon Square,
The watchman low is blowing
Upon the horn his air.
In many a foreign land—
But to thee greatest treasure
Was given by God’s own hand.
Thy dreams in deepest peace.
The while thou iron poundest,
Thy songs shall never cease.
Thy worship old and true
Of women, faith and freedom,
And keep it ever new!
Thy piety of yore,
And strength to fight with glory—
To-day and evermore.